It was a wedding weekend, and the whole family was convening in Decorah, Iowa, for the big event. Family was coming from Montana, Saskatchewan, Illinois and Michigan. It was a gathering we had been planning for months and the excitement was palpable.

 

As I reviewed the itinerary, I began to pack. None of the weekend activities involved manure, cows, farms, show rings, sale arenas or anything dirty and I decided I would not even take a pair of boots.

This was the first time in years I packed my suitcase without a pair of boots. I decided I would take my smaller bag and, as I sat on it to zip it up, I was proud of myself for packing so light. We headed west and ended up in the middle of Dairy Central. Northeastern Iowa is the mecca of great purebred herds. We could name off farm after farm after farm that was within a 40-mile radius of the wedding festivities, but we weren’t there for cows – we were there for two people who fell in love.

We enjoyed visiting with family, catching up with my nephews and playing with all my great-nephews and -nieces. We ate, we played, we talked and we ate some more. By the time the wedding reception was in full swing, we were having a great time and then I realized the next morning we would travel home – and I never needed any boots.

As we were watching the bride and groom move through all the reception traditions, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked up and it was Larry Landsgard, who had employed my nephew for a number of years on his local dairy. We invited him to sit down and he and my husband held the only kind of conversation two dairy farmers could have: cows, cows and more cows.

A half-hour later, he was drawing a map to his farm and I knew at that moment I should have brought a pair of boots. We woke up early the next morning, packed and left the hotel before sunup, without saying goodbye to anyone. We had to get to Land’s Brook before they finished milking and turned the cows out. Donning my Nike slides, I knew I had to be careful not to step in any manure.

We went through every cow in the barn full of Registered Holsteins and Milking Shorthorns and then made our way to Dan Moon’s place just a few miles away.

As we looked through the Moondale herd, we weren’t three cows into it before I heard a splatter, and I couldn’t get out of the way quickly enough.

Sure enough, I had tiny manure splatters from the bottom of my jeans to the top of my mint-green cotton cardigan. As I looked down at my splattered clothes and polished toes, I must have looked like some city slicker in a quandary wondering how I would ever be able to go to breakfast without smelling like a cow.

And then I realized it didn’t really matter. From here on out, I will always travel with a pair of boots – because no matter where we go, there are bound to be cows that need to be looked at, cow conversations that need to be had and dairy farmers who willingly drop everything to host someone who cares about the dairy cow as much as he does.

The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of Farm World. Readers with questions or comments for Melissa Hart may write to her in care of this publication.